


100 (ish) word challenge: november 2019

by RoseateGales



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Era, Challenges, DA4 speculation, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseateGales/pseuds/RoseateGales
Summary: A compilation of all the fics I wrote for a challenge I did throughout November 2019, using prompts I found on Tumblr to write at least a hundred words a day and experiment. A total of ten ficlets and two full-length fics were produced. I've included a directory for those interested in reading only certain pairings and relationships.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Hawke & Varric Tethras, Solas & Female Trevelyan, Zevran Arainai/Josephine Montilyet
Kudos: 4





	1. Directory

**Author's Note:**

> because of the nature of the challenge, which was to simply write and experiment without the pressure to be good, i do want to first let readers know that little of what i'd written was meant to be read as "finished." in fact, my understanding of the characters i'd written for has evolved since then, and the two fics at the end were written as first drafts for future projects

Day 1: Dagger — Zevran Arainai/Josephine Montilyet. Teen. Fluff. Wordcount: 159.

Day 2: Simplicity — Solavellan. Teen. Fluff, Mild Angst. Wordcount: 199.

Day 3: Memories — Character Study for Surana. Teen. No pairing. Mild Angst. Wordcount: 242

Day 4: Lie — Solavellan. General. Fluff, Modern AU. Warning for food mention. Wordcount: 248

Day 5: In Dreams — Solavellan. General. Angst. Wordcount: 112

Day 6: Dance — Solavellan. General. Fluff. Warning for alcohol and racism mentions. Wordcount: 254

Day 7: How Dare You — Hawke & Varric. General. Fluff. Wordcount: 206

Day 8: Undone — Solavellan. Explicit. Smut. Wordcount: 319

Day 9: Hide — Solas & Trevelyan. General. Hurt/Comfort. Warning for racism mention. Wordcount: 280

Day 10: Hoarse — Solavellan. General. Fluff. Wordcount: 473

Days 11-24: Whisper, Bittersweet — Solavellan. Explicit. Smut, Modern AU. Wordcount: 2.2k

Days 25-???: Redamancy — Mature. Hurt/Comfort, DA4 Speculation, AU. Wordcount: 2.9k


	2. Day 1: Dagger

They are never in each other’s arms for long. It is a consequence of his life as a former Antivan Crow, and hers as the Inquisition’s Chief Ambassador and Diplomat. He must attend to those who seek his life and who bid for unsavoury contracts, and she must secure and maintain allies across Thedas for the Inquisition’s causes. Daggers and ink submerge them. If not the distance of the seas, their responsibilities keep them physically apart.

But when they are allowed the reprieve of meeting each other, oh, it is like romance that inspires lovesick song and poetry. They breathe each other in and it is like the familiar scent of home. They confide and they embrace and they admire. They give each other stable harbour. And though their hearts will beat hurried, worried, when they are again apart and must wait to see each other… Their time spent together lingers in their thoughts, on their skin, and sustains.


	3. Day 2: Simplicity

Love, like any emotion, is multifaceted. Complex, layered. It is a bringer of life and death, a cause of wars and covenants, a driver of selflessness and selfish acts alike. He has been witness to Love’s many forms and stirrings in Arlathan and in the Fade, and known its manifestations as kinship to his friends and duty to his people. And now?

He never thought he’d suffer it anew.

Love takes on the form of her face, her body, her spirit. It makes him think himself mad and it makes him hold onto her like sanity. Furious, calming. It is anything but simple; and yet it veils itself under the guise of simplicity—quick-witted words, stories traded, the way their shoulders brush. Stolen kisses, his hands through her hair, laughter so pure that, for a moment, he forgets the Dalish legends.

It would be easier if all he felt toward her was Desire. Desire is simpler. It can be tricked or made to diminish with time. But Love?

Love is a self-sustaining flame. And as he watches her asleep beside him, wrapped within his arms, her heartbeat thrumming through to his—he knows, in one way or another, he will burn.


	4. Day 3: Memories

Laisa Surana has few memories of her childhood before the Circle.

She remembers her mother’s golden hair, like her own. She remembers the scent of fresh bread baking and meat stew in a pot. She remembers mamae as a word fondly spoken and a cry pulled from her throat.

That’s all she remembers.

She doesn’t remember her mother’s name, or if she had a father. She doesn’t remember the features of her mother’s face or the sound of her voice. She doesn’t remember where they lived… She didn’t even remember what Denerim’s alienage looked like, until the Blight brought her and her companions there.

She was six years old when she was taken by the templars. The colour of her irises changed from deep brown to cloud-grey, and there was no hiding her. What transpired immediately after was a blur of tears. Templars herding her and the other mages to crowded dorm rooms. Meeting First Enchanter Irving. Meals set out and missed. The other children staring at her. Some calling her knife-ear.

Laisa had to quickly learn acuity in the Circle’s unkindness. But there days and nights when she still cried and tried to remember.

She is twenty-two now—and the Hero of Ferelden and Warden-Commander of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens. Since the Blight is a year ended, damn her to the Void if she doesn’t use what the Circle taught her and the resources at hand to uncover her family and her past.


	5. Day 4: Lie

“Have you had your meal?” asks Solas, steering the topic of conversation away from their work and the disappointment of yet another night apart.

Eludysia looks over at the remnants of her late lunch, the last meal she had eaten: tea gone cold and a packet of almost-finished biscuits on her desk. She chews her lower lip. It wouldn’t be a lie to say yes, on a technicality; Solas did not ask which meal she’d had, only if she had hers. He needn’t be concerned any more than he already is. Still—she knows he means dinner. And to find holes like that would be treating it as a case to handle, wouldn’t it? He deserves better. So, “I’ll order something in later,” she promises.

“If your hunger is not forgotten and you don’t come home ransacking our kitchen again,“ he says, dry.

“I won’t.” Though he cannot see through the phone line, she smiles. He can’t be faulted for that assumption. It has happened on multiple occasions. She is tempted to argue about how his habits can be just as bad (as they have done before.) But instead, she settles to ask him, “have you eaten dinner?”

There’s a rap on the glass pane of her office door. Her smile breaks into a full grin. It’s Solas, under the dimmed fluorescent lights, holding his phone to his ear in one hand and a large takeout bag in the other. He smiles back at her. “I’ve made my preparations.”


	6. Day 5: In Dreams

Spirits reflect the minds of those around them. Isn’t that what he repeatedly stressed?

So, what happens to Love, when it is anchored deep, tried and tested in war and in dreams, and betrayed at the end? What happens to its shattered shards? What twisted image reforms in its place? Terror? Despair? Rage?

Or, perhaps, Hate?

Never could she predict that she’d have to ask these questions. Nor that they are price she’d have to pay after drinking of the Vir Abelasan. But here, shackled to the ground by the magic of the man she loved, the man who once proclaimed her free, they claw from her throat as an unceasing cry.


	7. Day 6: Dance

“Hunt well,” he says, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

The Inquisitor halts her tracks. She is half-turned away and the room is draped in the shadows of the night, barely lit by the amber glow of its sconces and the silver moons, but he spies how she seizes his double-edged meaning. She glances over her shoulder to him, and a smirk threatens her mask of diplomatic decorum. “ _Solas_ ,” she says in response, using his name as an appreciative, cautionary and parting word.

He allows himself a soft chuckle. Pride blooms in his chest as he watches her weave her way around the Orlesian nobles. They think her—think them—as prey to be hunted and exploited, like they do with the elves across all Thedas. Little do those who underestimate her suspect that they’ve handed her a gift of power over them. She will smile and bow and dance, play their Game to her advantage, and be poised to strike with deliberate phrases.

He is reminded of a time not dissimilar to now, when he played the courts of Arlathan in a similar fashion. It would be pointless to picture Eludysia in that bygone era, to wonder at what she would have been like, dressed in diaphanous green and arm-in-arm with him; it is this world that shaped her spirit, and in this world that they’ve met. She would not be the same woman he’d come to love and admire.

Still.

A servant offers to fill his cup again. He accepts, and drinks.


	8. Day 7: How Dare You

Messy? No, too on the nose for her life and not buoyant enough.

Chatter? Maybe. Though, she’d needle him for that.

The rain is pouring down Crestwood in sheets. Cold sinks through the Inquisitor’s camp and the canvas tents. To take his mind off it and the mess with Corypheus and the Grey Wardens, Varric thought he’d try to find Hawke a new nickname. She’d overheard him call Solas ‘Chuckles’ back at Skyhold, and proceeded to call him out with mock indignation.

“ _How dare you, Varric!_ ” She’d exclaimed, with a pout. A pout! “ _I thought we had something special._ ”

When he tried to apologise for his mistake, she assured him there was no harm done. He felt bad, but he believed her. Hawke’s sense of humour is biting like that, even if she’s mostly concerned for those around her. But to say that these past years have not been kind to her would be the understatement of the age. Corypheus’ resurfacing is just the latest. If giving her a new nickname, sworn to be solely hers, would give her a genuine reason to smile for a bit, it’s worth his effort.

Softie? She doesn’t show it, but she is a sap. It’d make her laugh.

Perfect.


	9. Day 8: Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspiration, elven phrases and translations come from fenxshiral.

‘Making love’ is an idiom and euphemism originated in the Common language. Translated to Elven, it becomes inelegant and clumsy, or perhaps simply charming in its own manner depending on the speaker and the recipient. The Elven language has its own idioms, in a variety of localisms. They range from direct to poetic. Such as ‘Isalan hima sa i’na’; ‘I lust to become one with you.’ Or ‘Isalan dera na aron tuelan’; ‘I will touch you like a god.’ Like the phrase of ‘making love,’ how these phrases are received would depend on who is speaking it. And translated to Common, they evoke an ornate imagery that is mundane to the minds of Elven-speakers.

But neither Common nor Elven can directly translate the language of physicality, the delight of tracing the shape of a lover with tongue, teeth, mouth, hands. The press of flesh on flesh. The high that renders you undone and leaves all words amorphous.

And indeed, how this language is articulated is dependent on the ones who express it.

Solas, Eludysia has learned, responds like she sings lyric by the lightest of touches. Kiss him chastely, and his tongue will find hers. Cast a pulse of magic to brush his skin, and his own will sing in her veins. Rake her nails over his hips, and he’ll seize her hands. Take just the tip of him into her mouth, and he’ll buck, curse, and praise her name; his hands will tangle into her hair, gripping, thrusting, moaning, eager to set his own pace and relinquish and wrest control. A sweet and wild contradiction, an oxymoron, that resounds like the roar of her heart in her ears and the bliss of his release. Something that can never be translated or even fully defined.

This language and how they receive it is still new to them. They’re still learning. And what a joy it is to study together.


	10. Day 9: Hide

“I have not encountered a human who has shown such pure willingness to learn about the Ancient Elves and the empire of Elvhenan. Why the interest, Clara?”

Solas looks at her with the narrowed eyes of a skeptic. _It’s justifiable_ , she thinks, considering the atrocities committed against the elven people and how humanity has been at odds against them for centuries. It’s prudent of him, really. They have known each other only a few days. She doesn’t bear the features of an elf and she has the surname of noble human lineage. He may assume her intentions aren’t what they appear to be, but something contemptible instead. His suspicions could be diffused after she tells him the truth.

Except—the truth is always hard to tell.

“My, uh… My mother is an elf, actually,” Clara manages, licking her lips. He’ll regard her differently after this. The elves and humans who know always do. She isn’t enough of either, to either. Pity, scorn, and discomfort are just the few receptions she can name offhand. She continues, “I grew up in an alienage hearing stories about—about her people and how it used to be. Before I was sent to the Circle. They’ve stayed with me, and I thought… Well, I should find out if they got anything right.”

She smiles and shrugs then, to hide how she braces herself.

Solas’ expression, too, becomes unreadable.

“You have elven blood,” he states, like it’s a stark fact. “I’m sorry. I did not realise.”

_Most don’t, ‘til I tell them_ , she wants to say. But, “it’s… fine,” she lies.

He nods, and offers, “if there is anything you wish to know, you have but to ask.”


	11. Day 10: Hoarse

“You ought to be _resting._ ”

“Inquisitor. It is a cold. I will live.”

Solas’ conscientiousness is one of the many attributes Eludysia thinks commendable about him. When he’s committed to an undertaking, he follows through. Even if it may cost him well. It’s one of the first things that drew her to his side. It does, however, have its moments when it becomes frustrating, coupled with a stubbornness that could rival an ox—such as in the present, where she finds him at his desk in the rotunda, scrawling notes on the Elvhen runes they discovered, in spite of his cold’s symptoms having hardly subsided. He’s had consecutive fevers that stopped only two days ago. His voice is still hoarse. His breathing is still laboured due to congested airways.

And he just sneezed into his arm.

Upstairs, there are caws of Leliana’s ravens rattled in their cages.

“Do I have to order you to put aside your work?” asks Eludysia. She stands across from him, arms folded and fingers drumming on her sleeve. 

Solas doesn’t miss a beat. “If you did, you would be abusing your position as Inquisitor and rightly accused of biased treatment.” He sniffs, continuing his compositions without looking up.

Perhaps a softer approach?

She steps to sit on the edge of his desk, careful enough to obscure his view of his notes and inkpot without disturbing them. He would glare at her, if her fingers were not swiftly placed to his temple to effuse waves of heat. His breathing eases and his eyelids flutter close.

“What if I asked you very nicely, then? As your vhenan? Please?” Her voice is quietened as she massages the tension away and continues with her spell. She sighs. “And if not for me or yourself, then for every single person who has to pass through the rotunda today.”

“When you put it that way…” He mutters. Then he sets his quill down. And just when she thinks he’s conceded, he pries her hands away and his gaze is cast past her. “I could set a barrier. I’m almost—”

“I’ll get Dorian and Dagna to overlook the translation of the runes,” she says, taking her hands from his grip to resume her ministrations, patience thinned.

“Ah. We’re going to put the translation of Ancient Elvhen runes into the hands of a Tevinter,” Solas deadpans. “Wonderful.” But he doesn’t resist her.

“If a problem arises, I’ll come looking for you.”

He raises a brow, unconvinced. Hesitant. “Would you?”

“You have my word,” Eludysia assures.

Seconds pass. Solas says nothing. Neither does she. They remain with her trying to soothe him and a multitude of protests hovering upon his tongue. A silent battle of wills.

“Fine,” he yields at last. “I will retire for the day.”

She smiles. “Good. Come, I’ll see you to your room myself.”


	12. Days 11-24: Whisper, Bittersweet

The main venue for tonight’s date is provided courtesy of Josephine.

Spare tickets for a new musical at one of Grande Royeaux’s theatres were given to her by an acquaintance hoping for good graces, and, as she had prior engagements, she passed them to Eludysia to do with as she pleases. It’s another modern retelling of Andraste’s rebellion against Tevinter, focused on her early life and the beginnings of the war she fought. The mythos is thoroughly known throughout Thedas of course. A centerpiece of faith and nations, it’s the subject of innumerable non-fiction and fictionalised works of controversy, so Eludysia had little inclination in carving out time to see it. But it has been weeks since she and Solas last had a night out together, and critics and audiences have raised this one to acclaim; thus, she has persuaded him and they are meeting tonight.

She wears a dress that flows to floor-length, with an asymmetrical neckline and a slit along her left leg, the shade of myrtle leaves. Her hair is bound into a simple side-braid, her makeup done with a subtle hand. Her heels and matching clutch-purse are an off-white colour. The overall effect is one that satisfies—and, she anticipates, is prepared well for the evening.

The show is at eight. In midnight black suit and tie, he picks her up at exactly six. It gives them enough time to have dinner and conversation at a restaurant nearby the theatre. They talk about the usual things: the current affairs of the city, her cases and their successes, his classes and the books he’s read, the new discoveries of the lost Elvhen empire. He tells her she looks beautiful. She jokes that he should wear a suit more often. His hand brushes her palm and she holds it. Their reconnection is natural. Smooth as the dark red wine which fills their glasses and they raise a toast to.

They arrive at the theatre on time to be seated. An usher escorts them to a private box for two, at the side of the stage. Soon, the seats below them are filled, to the very last one. And then the lights fade out. Applause follows. The play begins.

For the next half hour, they relive the times of old through the music of their own day. The tragedy of the story should be dissonant with the vibrancy of the beat, but the presented narrative is instead enriched. It’s something to be appreciated.

By Eludysia’s asking, Solas gives commentary on the historical inaccuracies and creative liberties taken. She’d be lying if she said she doesn’t prefer the deep baritone of his voice to the cast’s, talented though they are. In exchange, he asks for her thoughts. Their seats are side by side, close enough they are still be audible to each other over the orchestra. It’s close enough for their knees to touch, and for their hands to find each other’s after each applause break.

After half an hour, Solas’ hand doesn’t return to Eludysia’s. It drifts.

At first, his placement of it is innocuous—right above where her knee meets his. But then, his fingers trail a line. His touch whisper light, they wander up and up, across the skin bared by the opening of her dress’ slit, up toward her thigh. And he shifts the fabric.

Her breath hitches, of its own accord.

Solas hasn’t even begun.

She glances from the stage—where Andraste’s actress is delivering a conflicted soliloquy on her marriage to Maferath—to where his fingertips trace the curve of her thigh, back and forth. As if awaiting a decision. “Solas… What are you doing?” She asks, like she is unaware of his intent. Like she has to read his expression to glean it.

“I’m observing the show, vhenan,” he says, as if it’s obvious. He toys with her hem, but tenderness rests on his features. “Is there a problem?”

He’s offering an out. Affirming what she wants. One word from her, and he would stop. He wouldn’t question her. If she expressed any discomfort, he would let her push him away to undo it. The night could pass by without incident, and he’d bring her back to her apartment.

His concern cuts at her heart. She loves him. She does.

But the desire for this is mutual. She craves for it as much as he. So, “not at all,” she says, with a sweetened smile.

A smirk lurks at the corner of Solas’ mouth. His ivory hand dips beneath green.

He has knowledge on just how to unravel her seams, in both contexts of speech and touch. That may be the most dangerous part. She adjusts herself to help him push aside the fabric of her underwear, and his fingers are expert; he skims her inner thigh, teases at her folds, strokes slow circles around her clit, effortless. He does it all without looking directly at her, his attention still seemingly on the reenactment of the politics of the Alamarri border to an outsider’s eye. But while she tries to steady her gaze on the same, she grows wet and wanting. Her posture slackens to allow him better access. He slides a finger inside her, two, and she has to bite her lower lip to cage her gasps and moans as her hips seek and seek more and more of him.

He summons a tension Eludysia is driven to chase. She bucks forward, and he evades. She quickens her pace, and he delays his. The discordance of their rhythm is deliberate. It turns her frustrated and impelled to grasp for the cuff of his sleeve to synchronise their movements.

It’s a mistake. He withdraws.

She has to clamp her hand over mouth, muffling a scream of his name.

Distantly, as her head rests on the seat, she realises he’s remarking on the musical.

“…how vital Shartan’s role was in the rebellion. It is refreshing to see it recognised,” breaks through the drumming of the music—through her wild, erratic pulse—Solas’ tone somehow casually academic. He looks at her, wearing a spurious innocence, expectant. “Don’t you think so?”

Breathless, she laughs.

“I think…” What does she think? The only roles she cares about now are the ones she and Solas play. She is feverish, restless. The set of the theatre is reduced to a two-dimensional backdrop, fallen away and out of focus. The script’s pages are lost. She resolves to rewrite. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

Solas follows. “I always enjoy giving you what you want, vhenan,” he says, placing a soft kiss behind her ear. “In due time.”

He returns a long, slender finger to hover and drag along her sex. She writhes. The high ceiling is less dizzying to stare at than the stage lights and her mind.

For a fraction of a second, Eludysia weighs a plea on her tongue. Solas might relent. It’d be easy and she’d be satiated. But it occurs to her that if he keeps her on a precipice, there is a chance he will not. And she is rarely one who begs for leniency. If it’s a struggle he hopes for, it’s a struggle he will get. “How long?” she asks, for she has knowledge on Solas too.

He chuckles, shakes his head at her. Rubs patterns on her thigh to soothe. “Be patient.”

“No, no, I meant—” She wets her lips and considers him, and her laugh is of daring impulse. “—how long, do you suppose, until I can touch you the way you’re touching me now?” She ventures and leans toward him, cloying, promising. “How long until your cock will be stroked by my hands, my—”

His thumb presses her clit. Her legs squeeze and her hand flies to her mouth.

“Lest you forget,” Solas warns, the storm-grey of his eyes darkening. He parts her legs; fully revealing the left and more. The way her skirt drapes over her now is almost precarious. “I still have an advantage.”

A whimper escapes her, unhidden. She grips at the edge of her seat to rein herself. “You said you enjoy giving me what I want.”

“Unless what you want is to incite me any more than you have. That will not end well.”

She doesn’t give up. “Why? Will you bend me over and fuck me—”

“Eludysia!”

The thrust of his fingers is as sudden as his hiss. Thought is abandoned and she jolts and buries her face into his shoulder. He moves faster and deeper this time, a furor, that spurs her on and on and on until she is trembling around and beside him, smothering her keens and sobs as pressure builds, pushes her to the edge. She maintains her grip on the seat, knuckles whitening. Her hips press against him, her legs squeeze to snatch him there. Her insides are molten and the sought for high nears—

And Solas retreats again.

Strings of Elven curses tumble from her lips onto his sleeve.

Regretful, Solas calms her. His breathing is irregular, as is hers. The hand working her goes back to gently caressing her thigh, the other cradles the back of her head. He kisses the top of her hair, mumbling an apology, and ascertains if she’s all right. She collects what she has of her strength to nod and articulate an apology as well, in spite of her wound up state, and encircles his arm with hers to reassure.

There’s a sliver of Eludysia still conscious of their surroundings, the possible consequences of their actions; muted in the obscene but present. Applause is heard, a break before the next song. What would happen, if someone were to sight how she and Solas hold each other? She is ragged, covered in a sheen of sweat and her skirt askew. He is stiff and strained, fingers glistening from her slick. The balcony’s marble enclosure hides their misdemeanor, but not their unbelonging embrace.

She draws back, glances at the silhouette of the audience, then at him. “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” It’s a genuine question, apart from tricks and tactics. Absurdity underlines their situation like crimson ink. A portrayal of a battleground is just downstairs, and here they are, irreverent, above, with one of their own. All it would take is a slip of her voice, or for someone to look up, or for intermission to arrive. And yet, they go on.

“I calculate my risks,” Solas says, pausing his ministrations to pull at her skirt’s fabric so she is less exposed. He regards her appearance, her visage. “Not unlike you.”

Eludysia can’t help but smirk. “Referring to the dress, or?”

“You had your suspicions on how I’d respond if you chose it, didn’t you?” he sighs and stills, the statement coarsened. “Like you how you had suspicions on how I’d attempt to silence you if you stirred my fantasies.”

“Well,” she says, eyes bright as the purest emeralds, “I enjoy giving you what you like, too.”

“The games we play should frighten us,” he observes, his mouth forming a grim line.

“They would—if we weren’t aware of what we were getting ourselves into.”

“We aren’t always.”

“We’ll work on that,” she promises, and tugs on his arm. Her body is still as sensitive as a livewire, but her words are tender. Earnest.

Solas hums, and he allows himself a smile and the approval. The hand in Eludysia’s hair moves to tip her chin up, closer. “Perhaps you’ll stay quiet, then?”

It’s her turn, now, to shake her head at him. “One day, ma’lath,” she says, with a lilting affection, “you will tire of your need for restraint.”

“Ma vhenan,” he chokes, the endearment a bittersweet sound. Behind his lust, his delectation, his solicitude, is an unnameable despair. He sets it before her and indulges, “that day came when I fell in love with you.”

And so he kisses her roughly. A lash of hunger upon her, his mouth and nipping teeth inflict silken heat, his fingers finding her sex to delve in once more, so she gasps and his tongue can steal its way to entangle with hers. He conducts a new, headier rhythm, strikes in and out in concert with her need, how her hips rise and buck and pursue. He takes her moans, he takes her breath. Her nerves sing, burn, pulse. She becomes lightheaded and begins to seize as he finally, finally delivers unto her a delirium. She pushes away for air, but he keeps a vice-like grasp by the nape of her neck so their lips and her cresting cry remain sealed and secret.

There is a beautiful irony in the paradoxical act; what is meant to restrain is itself a surrender. What should conflict is inseparable. Where does one end and the other emerge?

As Solas releases Eludysia and rights her, she lets her head lay on his shoulder. He doesn’t protest. Oxygen floods her lungs, and in the equilibrium of weightlessness and the sense of gravity, a line from the Chant of Light rings crystalline: — _a vision of all worlds, waking and slumbering / spirit and mortal to me appeared._

They don’t wait for intermission. He takes her home. Her dress is ripped, discarded on his bedroom floor with the rest of their clothes. She makes good on her word, strokes him with her hands, her mouth. He then has his way with her; marks her skin like she could eternally be his own. Like they’ll be all right. And together, they relish in their sounds and avowals of love saturating the room through and through.

He doesn’t know Eludysia wakes in the middle of the night to wonder at the profoundness of him and his confession, as she’d done months ago when he came to her door.


	13. Days 25-???: Redamancy

The garden is quiet tonight. 

Quiet, yet without stillness. Magic hums through the atmosphere, brushes the skin of its inhabitants, the bodies within. The trees and their branches reach for the sky’s guiding constellations, the twin silver moons, leaves swayed gently by a breeze. 

Beneath, Eludysia and Solas sit side by side, their backs to a trunk, on a blanket laid for a picnic of pastries, cakes and wine long picked clean. Her fingers are interlaced with his, head resting on his shoulder. The garden is brimming with plantlife; scores of herbs such as royal elfroot, felicidus aria and prophet’s laurel are carefully cultivated on the grounds, lined in pots enchanted to enhance the properties of their nourishment. Flowers such as crystal grace, roses, tiarellas, daisies, lilies, and more grow wild, in every shade and hue, forming designs by their nature. Ivy climbs the trees and trellises that lead to the eluvian’s entrance. But when he breathes in, it is her scent he keeps his focus on—of embrium and pine and morning rain.

It is a small thing, but he commits it to memory. In a month, it will be changed, gone. She will enter uthenera, and her body will be suffused by the heavier smells of scented oils on her skin and the herbal concoction fed to her. An effect of the plan they agreed upon: While she sleeps and learns to draw sustenance from the Fade to stave the exigencies of time on her form, he will seek further alternatives to restoring the immortality of the elves who were born before the Veil was sundered, and perhaps a way to extend the gift to the other races. After three years of investigation, theorising, and discussion, no other option presented itself. Time continued dwindling, and they’d made a choice.

The hope is that his magic, the spirits they’d befriended, and her experience of walking the Fade prior would provide her an advantage. With luck, they’ll quickly be proven correct in their beliefs. If the method is a success, others can choose to follow, and she will serve as a guide in the realm of spirits.

They’ve accounted for potential risks, drawn up the schematics, and informed those able to be trusted. The supplies for the ritual have been gathered. The chambers are being built and readied. All that remains are loose ends and making the most of the time they have.

And yet he feels an ambivalence, even now.

“Are you worried?” Solas asks, piercing the calm conversation between them. It’s not a question that belongs in this place, in the intimacy they’ve created—but it is a necessary one. They have spoken mostly of hypotheses, expectations, logistics, and contingencies regarding the plan; causing the subject of her feelings to be insufficiently examined. They ought to be thorough. It must not be diminished to the least of their considerations.

Eludysia doesn’t answer immediately. She falls silent for a few moments, presumably contemplating the precise words to confer, how he’ll react. Then she turns her head closer to the crook of his neck, so that her expression is out of view, nods once, and says, “I’m worried we’re wrong and we’ll fail.” The corner of her mouth curves against his shoulder. “And… I’m worried about what will happen if we’re right,” she confides, a whisper so quiet it’s near imperceptible.

That Eludysia worries they’ll fail is known unsaid, but this is the first Solas has heard of her fearing a future where they’re right. How had he missed something with such significance? Why did she keep silent until asked? Does she not yet trust him enough? She gives no specifications to her meaning, nothing revealed in her tone or the words chosen. If she is to disclose more of her concern and why she hid it from him, he has to proceed with caution.

“What do you suppose will happen? Would you tell me?” He tries. “Perhaps giving a voice to your fears eases them.”

She again ruminates. To his surprise, she relents and sighs. “I won’t be here. I’ll have left people behind and generations will pass. The conclusion of the process could take centuries,” she says, omitting that it was he who explained the length of time offhand to her. He questions why. She continues, “this world will be different when the time comes for me to wake, as will I. Not even this garden will stand as it does now. That’s inevitable. What if it’s not for the better?” 

He remembers a time when he asked her if she would risk everything in the hope of shaping a better world. He had experienced what she describes, awoken to one where magic and spirits terrified and the elves had lost themselves due to his desperate creation, and harboured similar doubts. Young and willful, Eludysia responded that she would, carrying a burning persistence in her conviction to continue trying in the face of all darkness. Corypheus, Haven, Clan Lavellan’s death, the forfeit of her freedom to Mythal… And in so doing, she renewed his faith in his cause—the same cause that led to twelve years of distance, pain, and an unforgivable crime committed against her.

He can’t allay this fear. Not honestly. He can’t guarantee she’ll wake to a world of peace, innovation, and beauty where every sacrifice made was worth it. He can’t tell her she won’t grieve the people lost, that an infinite lifespan won’t have enough hurt to twist her spirit. He can’t instill the same hope she did in him. He has seen too much and lived too long to do that. 

So he responds by offering what counsel he holds. 

“There will always be tides we cannot control, vhenan,” he gently reminds. “Outcomes we cannot predict. Such as unforeseen circumstances and the reactions of other people. But it is fortunate that we may learn from them, and from the mistakes we’ve made, to alter our own course as best we can. With time can come knowledge and wisdom, and with wisdom, the choice to act for good or ill—as you are doubtlessly well aware.”

“That’s not an answer,” she argues, smiling, pretending the finer point was missed.

“It is all we have,” he says helplessly, his thumb tracing the bones on the back of her hand. He places a kiss in her hair, and lets the lids of his eyes shut. Breathes in and out. Embrium and pine and morning rain. “It’s neither simple nor easy, but change has been an unmovable pillar of the world since the first-laid foundations. We can only try to remember and hone our best in its crucible, though the tragedies we experience may render us unrecognisable to ourselves. It is both blessing and burden.” He shifts, fingertips coaxing her chin upwards, lifting her face to his. “As with immortality. Eludysia, if you have second thoughts…”

“Don’t,” she snips, and jerks back. Tears from him so abruptly, he flinches in his misstep. Eludysia’s eyes don’t find Solas’ but he sees her clear as winter-kept lake; night’s shadows do nothing to hide the cracks in her composure, the exhaustion in the deepening lines that frame her features, how her emotions bristle against the tight set of her jaw. Regret hangs in the air like it wants to be given form.

But before Solas can utter his apology, she takes both of his hands into hers and presses her own to each of his knuckles; a few at a time, hurried, as if the act could recover the equilibrium lost. The rough grain of her sylvanwood arm only sends a pang of guilt to his chest, and the softness of her mouth on his skin sharpens it.

Eludysia eventually lowers his hands to her lap, grip unwavering even as her breath does. And when at last she looks at him, her eyes, shining so bright and bare in the moonlight, are imploring. “Don’t talk me— _us_ —out of this,” she amends, voice tender, rasping where it’s strangled. “Our people have lost enough. _We have lost enough._ Shouldn’t we stop wasting time? Save as many as we can from having to bury more of their loved ones? Please, ma’lath. Don’t.”

And there it is. The reason for her prior silence and the masking of her fears. It was not hostility, manipulation or her control taken captive that she anticipated as the result of her confession. It was him changing his mind. 

She had sensed his ambivalence, and he confirmed her suspicion.

Solas looks away, turning from Eludysia to the flowers, the trees, the pathway to the eluvian. He has to, for the sight of her is like staring into the perilous depths of a windstorm.

This is Eludysia Lavellan: A woman who dedicates herself to her people and her cause, a kindred spirit he has found himself in, who would leap into the Void itself and bargain with gods if she thought she could keep those close to her safe; whose heart has taken suffering and used it to push her toward improbable ideals, its desperate impulses as integral to who she is as kindness or compassion.

Seventeen years Solas has known and loved her. Seventeen years and a world remade, and the things that drew him to her, that comfort and terrify him in equal measure, have survived. In spite of everything. In spite of him and of his actions. 

But—could they endure?

He has watched time corrupt the reckless and unguarded as surely as power. He needn’t even cite a memory recorded in the Fade. The Evanuris would do. As would he. Though Eludysia is no fool naive to the possibility and consequences, her very nature and youth makes her vulnerable.

Her pleading with him to stay their course lets slip her apprehension, her lingering reluctance. Her use of us, we, and the endearment is nonetheless an attempt to appeal to his desires for her and the Elven race. What is he to say to that? What is he to do? Argue the right points to try persuading her into a delay or a finite but easier existence, and more of their people will die, to old age, to illness, perhaps along with her. Carry through with their plan, and though they could save their people from watching family and friend wither away, he might condemn her to a life overlived. Selfishness chokes whatever option he has!

He dares a glance. She peers at him. “That wasn’t my intention,” he says, steel-calm, lest he betray himself and upset her further.

“Is that the honest truth?” She asks, skeptically humouring. “And what are your intentions now?” 

There is no perfect solution to the circumstances, and no point in evading her. Worse still, if she thought him lying she would withdraw, and go on concealing and downplaying her feelings for his sake, fiercely insisting that they move forward, distracted from rationale. They would clash and counter, drag a fight out, up until the date set for the ritual, worries incensed and neither left content. Honesty is an advantage, here. It could bolster their mending trust, at least, if not bring them some comfort.

Solas pulls a hand free, and runs his fingers through Eludysia’s pale-gold hair down to the ends at her tensing shoulders. Though she has braces herself, she leans into his touch without hesitation; he cups her cheek, marveling at this. 

“I want for you to be certain,” he says, as much for himself as for her.

Eludysia dismays, half a dozen sentences trialed and evaporating before they can land on her tongue. It is, after all, an impossible demand. She shakes her head at him. “I can’t grant you that—nor could I let you bury me.”

“I know,” he tells her, resigned. Were he in her place, he might say the same.

How he wishes she’d distanced herself, run from him the moment she was freed from the Vir Abelasan. How he wishes he had never encouraged her advances, his weaknesses, at all. But more than that, more than anything, how he wishes he were a better man worthy of her love, able to spare them the pain, the suffering. He had grieved her then, in a different world, and he grieves her now, in this one—and he is so tired of losing her.

Even when she kisses him, presses him to take more of what he shouldn’t, mouth warm and welcome, shadows of her besieged by fatalities stir behind his lids. Time, chaos, betrayal—the past goads him into images of possible futures. Her keen forest-green eyes, cold and devoid of life. Her sharpened tongue, silenced from speaking and inquiring of the world. Her arms no longer there to reach out to him. Her body once alive in his hands, transmuted into a bloodied corpse. Her rare, wonderful spirit, seemingly relentless with all of her vices and virtues, gone, nothing but wisps of energy and memory. Whether by death or cruelty, he sees her bound away into darkness.

He clings onto her, lays claim to whatever he can have in the present. His hand slides into her hair, around her neck, the other moving to squeeze her hip through the soft black wool of her coat as both her hands clutch his shoulders, tender flesh and rough sylvanwood. He parts her lips, tongue delving to twine with hers. She tastes of sweet acidic wine and the honey cream cakes they shared. Embrium and pine and morning rain fill his lungs, his being. He sighs, moans, the sensations of her like a spell he latches his focus onto, dispersing the phantoms at once, reminding him that she is still here and they have a while and a road full of choices yet.

“I will take care of your people and ensure they settle in comfort,” Solas says, promises between a breathless kiss. “I will tend to the garden as you wish it,” he adds, hardly breaking from another. Eludysia nods and hums her gratitude, a light laugh spilling forth; he takes sips of it. “And I shall be the first face you see when you wake.”

She draws back at that, blinking at him, face visibly flushed. “You’d have to wait for me,” she whispers, hopeless in her disbelief, as if she just realised what it was he offered. He doesn’t fault her for this. Not when he has abandoned her one too many times before.

“I have lived for millennia and ages beyond your counting. What I considered days in Arlathan and the Fade, to you would be years. So, tell me, what are a few centuries in comparison to the prospect of eternity at your side?” He tucks a flyaway behind her ear, and shakes his head, resolute. He won’t abandon her again. “And you are well worth the wait.”

The disbelief doesn’t wane from Eludysia’s expression. He half-expects her to make a wry remark, call him “flatterer” or “sweet talker” like an accusation. Instead, she simply comes upon him again, hastily climbing into his lap, fists in his shirt pulling him closer and closer still, as though she sees shadows of him leaving, too. 

Solas locks the eluvian with a thought. His magic echoes, crackles on their skin, and Desire soughs around and within them—in the air, the trembling leaves and petals, through their veins. 

Eludysia shudders, straddling him. She begins to rock her hips against him, torturously, nipping at his ear, his jaw. She earns a groan from him, and he bucks haltingly upwards, to the rough sound of her delectation, his hands roaming and squeezing across her lean thighs, the curve of her ass, her gracile waist. He tugs the clasp of her leather belt open, and tosses it. She leans away from only long enough to divest herself of her coat. But when she bends to kiss him again, he ducks his head and sets his mouth on her throat, sucking marks along her fluttering pulse, and she gasps; his deft fingertips already undoing the buttons from the collar of her tunic to her breasts, one by one by one.

There are spells he could use to undress them quickly. He would, at her request. They could be lain bare, writhing, on the grass in an instant. But he prefers this, this deliberate delay, the lengthening of pleasure, like they could stretch out time with their mere actions, and the world would wait for them.

She tilts her head for him, a demand. He can’t help but chuckle at her eagerness and savour it. “Solas,” she urges, and where her skin reddens from his attentions, he casts the subtlest cool to soothe, the gentlest vibrations to sing throughout her body, tantalising. Her hands slip beneath his shirt onto his chest, bracing her. “ _Solas_ ,” she repeats, melodic, while he steadily works the spells and the last buttons undone. “ _Ma Solas._ ”

He has never heard a sweeter nor more maddening sound than his name on her lips. A hundred years, a thousand years, a lifetime full of lifetimes later, would she continue to breathe it this way? To grant him redamancy? Would she still want her mouth on his and wish to claim him as hers? He is selfish to hope that she would, to contemplate all that he would give to hear her whisper to him in perpetuity. Pride, in truth.

But he would whisper to her as well; of her name, of memories, of stories lived and yet to come. And perhaps—perhaps they would keep each other untwisted. Whole. Perhaps they will stay the course to be nothing if not bettered. For themselves and for the People.

He has lived too long to grasp such hope.

But in her arms, he could.


End file.
